Why Girls Should Celebrate Young Men’s Resistance to Commitment

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Yes, I know how it sounds. Another write-up by a male chauvinist who is afraid of commitment and therefore seeks to justify his fear through illogical rationale.

Except that no illogical rationale shall be used here, nor will fear drive this discussion.

This is a piece written by a male of 30 or so who has accepted his lack of desire for early commitment (i.e. permanent romantic partnership of any sort), where “early” means “before the age of 40 or so”.

“Good men are hard to find”, is the general complaint lately. In fact, some people, as exemplified by a certain lady whom I follow on Facebook (details available on request), have even gone to lengths of encouraging sharing of these scarce “good men”. It is easy to dismiss these people as good-for-nothing home-wreckers.

But…are they?

It is a fact that our society has undergone rapid change in terms of freedom of sexual orientation and the expression thereof in the last decade or two. In addition to “normal” men (“normal” in the traditional sense), now termed “straight” or “heterosexual”, we have homosexual (“gays”) and bisexuals (basically every man who is either married to a lady or has a biological child conceived via natural routes, but which man occasionally “strays” to holding hands with another man).

What this results in is a factual reduction of men who are available to women. I will not discuss statistics from studies conducted by the University of Minnesota or its peers. Logic only shall rule in this discussion. Oryt.

Then of course we have our era of the “hustler”. The guy who practices the 2Pacalypse “M.O.B” doctrine, i.e. “money over bitches”. This guy gets aroused by money first, oestrogen later.

Then of course we have the incarcerated. These tend to stay locked in for a minute. Remember the guys who robbed the SABC journalists on camera? They each got 15 years. Robbery is the typical SA crime, so plenty of young men spend their first 10 to 15 years after attaining majority status, in jail.

So after gays, bisexuals, hustlers and convicts, we have a significantly reduced number of men in our society as compared to ladies. You may be thinking, hey, but ladies also have lesbians, bisexuals, hustlers and convicts. True. However, reason tells me that there is a significantly lower number of such as compared to men. Again, logic only shall rule the day, so we shall accept this logical conclusion (cos frankly, I’m lazy to google stats, so…).

Then we have the unemployed youth.

Then we have the nyaopes (druggies).

Then we have the already married, and happily so according to their Facebook posts.

The final number makes a sad unbalanced ratio of men to women available for marriage.

That final number is the number that is accused of being unmanly. “The men of today are afraid of marriage”, girls wail. “They will date you, cheat on you, break your heart, make babies with other girls, re-break your heart, love you, disrespect you, buy you trinkets, take you to clubs, make love to you – and at the end of the day never marry you. You end up marrying some other guy that you dated for a month, but you would have dated that other fucker for decades!”

True.

This final number of men (let us call these final men the “eligible bachs”) does not want to do the traditionally honoured thing of stepping up and marrying you as quickly as you would like. They baulk, trip and stall when the altar is mentioned.

However, consider the alternative. Imagine if each of these eligible bachs selected one girl and married them as soon as the girls liked. Imagine if the bachs never strayed, never cheated – just did their wives, klaar. What then?

Let me tell you.

Girls would starve out there. There would be zero booty calls, zero clandestine dates, zero second wives, zero baby daddies, and zero people to bring drama to. Ladies – you would starve.

Right now it seems bad that you enjoy men until you maybe get to 50, then because you are unmarried, you then spend the rest of your life alone. However, you do at least get to enjoy men until then, because they are unshackled and can be with you without much harm being done. If the men committed to one girl, plenty of you would need to enlist the services of your gay friends or spike married men’s drinks to at least get some human attention.

You would enjoy that, would you not? Yes, I’m sure you would.

All I is sayin’ is, by men defaulting from doing the honoured thing, ladies get more time to enjoy themselves – you get opportunity. If you do get to 50 without someone marrying you, then tough luck, at least you had 30 or so years of action.

However, I think that fate will favour you. I think that the situation is normalizing. Hustlers are getting old as well, so be it may work out that when the hustler eventually tires at 40, you are there at 30, sweet 30, ready to cradle his tired head. Or when the convict eventually gets released at 45, you are there at 35 or 40, sweet, fresh and ready to give him money, food, kids and a shopping trip to Dubai in exchange for his surname.

Meanwhile, you frolick and make money.

Is that not what life is about anyways?

The Fear

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You shall not find,

Though you be therein curious, the least cause

For what you seem to fear: so, the gods keep you…

…Mark Antony – Antony and Cleopatra, William Shakespeare

 

Shakespeare, William, has said it before: some are born mediocre, some achieve mediocrity and some have it thrust upon them. Or was it Joseph Heller who said it? Does it matter?

Today’s article is based on some very personal experiences, such that I must warn the reader: if you are adverse to dark crevices of a  personal nature, read with caution.

Indeed the world has some pitiful sights on its face. I have become aware, as I have been growing up, of a fear. A fear upon humankind whose pervasive stench filters through our senses, as tangible as air, as apparent as sight, as putrid as the worst ammonium vapour I have ever experimented with; such vapour arising from back in my childhood days when I and my brethren would bury a bottle full of urine in the sand for weeks, our sole moment of triumph being manifested by the opening of that bottle, taking turns to sniff and gag, sniff and gag, laugh, and maybe drown a few ants and millipedes in it.

I have seen a fear so loathsome it would make a mental doctor quit her trade.

What is that fear? It is the fear of a man who has married a wife whose virtue he cannot bet on.

I have been accused of cheating with wives of friends, colleagues, acquaintances and even people I do not have any physical contact with, nor knowledge of their existence. I have been labelled a Judas of the worst kind, a conniving betrayer in whose hands one can only entrust his kindred folk, both intimate and distant, at one’s own most guaranteed risk. It usually does not matter what I say. It usually does not matter that such victim of mine, my seduced, is so physically removed from me in both distance and time-space that it would take a combination of The Flash and a Time Machine to perpetrate the crime: one way or the other, sufficient inference is drawn by the Accuser, from his or her suspicions, that a trial is unnecessary. I am summarily charged, convicted and sentenced based on the inferences, regardless of lack of logic; or rather, regardless of presence of warped logic.

Why?

This word has been the source of many a sleepless night. Why. Oh but why? Many of us accused would be familiar with the meditation process that usually follows such accusations. You would ask yourself: Do I attract these things? Did I go overboard in my friendliness to the point of flirtation? Has she perhaps called my name at the most inappropriate moment?

I met a girl once. A cousin of a cousin of a cousin of an acquaintance. This girl hunted me down. She hounded my trail, followed my spoor, traced my paw-print…until she almost, almost, found me. You will understand that I am being metaphorical, so interpret said metaphor as thou wilt. Later, after all her foolery, she told me a great secret. She said that she had been using the profile picture from my Whatsapp instant chat account to, er, get herself off in the most intimate of fashions. It did not matter that she did so while still being a part of a healthy, thriving relationship with a virile stud of a young man: she did it. At the end, I was getting phone calls from said young man, who was most displeased with my name being announced at the most meaningful moments of their quality time. But what had I done? What had I done, besides exist on God’s brown and green Savannah land?

I have witnessed a  fear so steeped in bile, it would shrivel a tongue that tried to taste, and burn a hole in a throat that tried to swallow.

I met a couple once. He; 27. She; 17. I; 18. Lol. You know where I am going with this, right?

So the guy, who from hereon will be known as The Douche, and myself became tight friends. I was still a teenager, experimenting with alcohol. The Douche was a community-certified alcoholic. As one may gather therefore, the friendship had a solid foundation. He introduced me to the frau (let us call her The Wench), who of course tried to be friendly and make the young friend of the husband (that being myself) feel at home. It so happened that I liked Hip-hop and R n’B. The Wench liked Hip-hop and R n’B. The Douche liked traditional Zulu tunes.

Everytime I visited them, The Wench would get me talking about music, and would end up crooning some tunes. The Douche would turn the conversation back on track, talking manly stuff: football, a bit of politics, office gossip (we worked at the same institution: I as a temp, he as permanent). The Wench, while busy tending to the pots, would turn around with an inspired verse and query my knowledge on the subject of the performance. I would jump right in, and laughter would ring throughout the house. The Douche would say something about football, leading me back into the delightful subject. She would interject with attention-grabbing, juicy Hollywood gossip. Then he would bulldoze back to the helm of the conversation with some political statement. A cold tug-of-war would ensue over my attention. Finally, The Douche would take me to the local bar, where we would proceed to get pissed. Later we would make our way back home in drunken camaraderie, arm across the other’s shoulders, abusing our already rusty throats with roaring, enthusiastic song!

Then one day, The Douche went a-drinking. Alone. He then came to my house and at point blank range accused me of having an affair with his wife. As I looked at this man, I saw the fear. So yellow in those bloodshot eyes; filling those eyes like a viscous, yellow mucous – so tangible and real. I saw the fear of a man who knew that the object of his time-based investments was up for grabs. I saw a man afraid of loss. I saw a man who had already lost, trying to salvage the little bit of pride by this manly show of bravery against an 18-year old youth who was twice his size, twice his energy, half his restraint, BUT fully innocent of the alleged crime he stood accused of. I understood his fear. I just did not understand why it had to be directed at ME!

It did come to blows. People intervened. They dragged his pathetic ass back home, thankfully.

 But I had seen it. The Fear.

 A fear so acidic it will cause its bearer one elongated ulcer from the oesophagus right down to the rectum.

My question was: why would one prefer to keep that wife or girlfriend who would cause such a perpetual, most unpleasant discomfort? What happened to Karyn White’s “I’d rather be alone than be unhappy”?

I dare not claim to know the correct answer. However, based on what I have seen in this life, I will postulate:

I HAVE SEEN A FEAR SO STRONG, SO VERY STRONG, THAT IT WILL MAKE ALL PAIN, ALL DISCOMFORT, SEEM WORTHY TO THE BEARER THEREOF.

The cause of that ultimate fear is simple enough.

Loneliness.